Tainted by Filth
by MerhppDerhpp
Summary: "Did you know," she murmurs, drawing her legs to her chest as she stares up at him, "that I'm a mudblood, Tom?" [Semi-AU/Canon AU. Grey OC. DISCONTINUED. Rewritten as, 'Afflicted with Filth.']
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hello. It's taken me a while to upload a new story that isn't a one-shot. Harry Potter is a fandom I'm moderately familiar with, but whilst I have the books; I haven't read them.

I apologise for any future unintentional inconsistencies with some facts, and if I incorrectly portray certain mental illnesses. This is to be a romance challenge story, but it might be unnoticeable for some time.

* * *

The sky never turns blue, remaining a dull grey as clouds move in a gradual loop. The birds in the distance do the same, whatever colours they're meant to be, greyed out just as the sky. It's surreal indeed, how a sky that's grey feels more real than a sky that's blue.

There's a rumble of a train in the distance, drawing her attention away from the sky and back to the platform that she resides upon. A quick sweep of her surroundings results in her settling her eyes on a figure that directly contrasts against the harsh whiteness of their surroundings.

She doesn't smile when she recognises him as he approaches, but a part of her relaxes at his arrival. He imparts a smile that one may consider charming if only because of his handsome appearance, but dark connotations linger in the emotion behind its existence; it is a familiar sight, and so it calms her when it should frighten her.

He looms over her, being rather tall and all. Certainly, it doesn't help that she's but a child and sitting whilst he stands. Craning her neck to meet his tumultuous gaze of obsidian, she pats the empty space beside her in a clear indication that he sit with her on the bench. As she tends to do almost every time.

Distaste colours his expression, followed by a scowl as he looks to the space beside her like it's something foul. There's no one else but her to witness him, so his emotions rein free for none but her to see. He won't admit it, not to her, but he enjoys being free of a mask. Sometimes though, he'll wear one whenever he feels the subject matter is too much for him to handle.

Knowing that soon, he will deign to sit beside her, she returns her arm to securing her legs to her chest.

"Do you think this is what death is like?" she inquires, staring up at the sky once more. Her voice feels like her own here, in her dreams where reality isn't reality at all. Her actions feel like hers, but her memories still remain distant and without emotion. Time is still distorted and meaningless, whether here or there.

He scoffs at her question, being somewhat dramatic in the swishing of his robes as he takes a seat beside her. The bench doesn't move under his weight, acting as though he's weightless as he sits upon its surface. There is no warmth radiating from his body, and there is no warmth from hers. He will not say it, not ever, but her presence calms him just as his own does to her.

Despite himself, he relaxes in his position, placing an arm on the back of the bench just at her back. It makes him feel better, knowing that he can quickly wrap his arm around her neck if need be. Distantly, she can recall when they would sit far apart.

Now, they are close enough to touch. His robes brush against her side like ethereal fabric. She feels no joy or fondness for the progress that they've achieved. She can't say the same for him, full of emotions and spirit as he is. He denies, of course, preferring to think himself as someone rather unfeeling.

He likes to wrap himself in delusion, she's learned. He likes to pretend that her presence doesn't poke at his inner desperation for someone to be there, so that he may not be alone. Sometimes, she indulges him. Other times, she argues against him. He thinks that she likes to mock him, and perhaps there may be some truth to that.

"Stuck in a washed out King's Cross Station for all eternity as death?" is what he eventually responds to her with, being notably rhetorical and too sophisticated with his tone. He doesn't notice how he leans closer to her in a subconscious manner that she doesn't bother to acknowledge. "Sounds dreadfully boring, but I will never know what death will truly be like. Have you not asked me this before?"

She doesn't remember, and she doesn't bother to say as much. He elicits a low hiss at her casual disrespect, directing a glare at her that she sees from the corner of her eye. Other than that, though, he does nothing. Her voice is hers here, but silence is still a comfort to her no matter where she is.

It bothers him, however; he often says that this line of thinking is why she will never be free of her illnesses. She doesn't disagree, having already accepted and acclimated to a life where her normality isn't particularly normal at all in the standards of society; both magical and non. She knows that this line of thinking frustrates him, if only because some part of him wants her to fight. For what or for whom, she doesn't know.

She wonders if he himself knows the answer. Sometimes he seems so sure, but other times he doesn't. Her very existence brings up an onslaught of confliction within him, she understands.

Absently, he's begun to play with one of her curls and it draws her back to her current reality. "Do you think our meetings have a particular meaning?" she questions him, and perhaps she's already asked this before as well. The pause in his fiddling with her hair isn't much to go by, but it means he's thinking about it regardless.

He resumes twirling her lock around his finger. "Perhaps," he allows, his voice softer and more thoughtful, "but I can hardly understand why. Why you? The most that we share is the magic that runs in our blood. You are, by all means, my opposite. A foreign, mentally ill little girl with an unconscious disregard for societal norms and outrageously voluminous hair. You have no ambition; no vision. Resigned as you are to live a life that you can't even say is your own; your superior intelligence is wasted on you."

Foreign, he says, if only because her skin is somewhat darker than his and her accent is a notable mix of English and French. Has she ever told him that she is British, just as he is? Perhaps he doesn't have a dual nationality, but the question is still the same. She's not sure if she has asked; if there's a point to telling him, regardless. After a moment of thought, she decides that there isn't.

"Sophisticated as you can be on the outside," she begins with a murmur, only minimally aware of how she leans into him, "you're still rather raw on the inside. You comfort yourself with resentment and hatred for the world, believing that it's done you a disservice. A terrible temper you have, Tom."

He demonstrates this very aspect by violently and childishly pulling on her hair, though the sensation of pain is as obscure here as it is in the real world. Still, because of the action, she's forced to crane her neck once more to stare up at him as he glares down at her. He wants to see fear, most definitely, or at least uncertainty. He thrives on dominating others; of being the best and the eternal.

She wonders what Tom sees when he looks at her. If he can see past the thick veil of numbness that surrounds her like a suffocating bubble to the emotions she herself can rarely feel. Whatever he sees, he doesn't find any satisfaction from it. He rarely does.

It infuriates him, this is obvious, as, in turn, she can see his emotions rather clearly. She supposes he thinks himself above the concept of emotions, which, in her opinion, is quite idiotic. But then, he's delusional, intelligent as he may be otherwise. The fact that she so clearly sees his emotions, and points them out, bothers him to no end.

"The world _did_ do me a disservice, _Hem_ ," Tom insists, seething, "throwing me in an orphanage with muggle children that are beneath me; denying me my heritage, my right to magic and all that associates with it until I turned eleven. My mother was weak despite her magical nature, and my filthy muggle father is a disgrace that abandoned his own unborn child without a second thought! The world is cruel and unfair, so I believe I'm well within my right to resent it so."

His vehement speech leaves her unfazed, finding it more interesting to fiddle with the fabric of his robes. Very much used to his superiority complex over the mundane and the mediocre, the unintentional slight towards her family and the blood they possess remains easily unmentioned. He also likes to justify himself for why he does or thinks things in a certain manner. He and her sister would have long, long debates, Hem theorises. Hopefully, they never meet.

The mention of turning eleven, though, brings up a memory that feels far into the past but is most definitely recent. "My sister and I are going to Hogwarts this year," she reveals, ignoring the way he jolts at the name of the school he goes to, "because she only turns twelve after the school term begins. She's excited to go, having already dived into the books we retrieved from Diagon Alley."

He's gone back to playing with her hair, perhaps even drawing himself closer to her in an unconscious manner. "Eleven already, are you?" he mutters, more to himself than to her. "I thought you might have been attending Beauxbatons, but it's just as well that you're going to attend Hogwarts. It _is_ the best wizarding school in the world, after all."

If Mum had decided that they move back to her homeland rather than visit every holiday, Hem probably would have. Truthfully, she has no preference for either school, though some part of her knows that Hogwarts has always meant to be her school. Regardless, whether she attends Hogwarts or Beauxbatons, there will always be her illnesses to weigh her down.

Normal, muggle schooling has taught her that. Even in a school full of witches and wizards, she doubts that they'll possess what she does.

"Where do you think I'll go?" Hem asks, even though she's not particularly curious to know. Tom likes to talk about his school, as it's one of the few things that he truly holds in high regard. There are four Houses, and his bias dictates that his own House is the best one.

Even if it's a rather toxic environment where pure-blood supremacy runs free and wild. He clings to it though, despite being a half-blood, so perhaps he fits in rather well. No one knows of his true lineage, aside from her, after all.

He elicits a considering hum, his hand having worked its way towards her scalp and seemingly attempting to detangle her hair. A futile effort, indeed, but he seems to enjoy the contact. Though he'll never admit as much. Tom doesn't have a desire for friendship or a need for physical contact, he says.

She thinks that her dream companion wilfully disregards both friendship and touch because he previously had never experienced it, and so he thought the both of them beneath him. This has changed, due to Hem's presence. Despite the fact that their forms are… not quite as tangible as they would be in the real world, the sensation of touch is muted but very much present.

They're not quite friends, nor are they particularly enemies. They simply are, and she supposes that's about as much of a friendship as he will accept or receive. The sheer peculiarity of their circumstances comforts them in their own way, so he craves for contact despite himself. Even if it's somewhat violent, and not quite as soothing. It doesn't impact her negatively, so it doesn't matter all that much.

"Ravenclaw, perhaps," he guesses, tugging on her hair when his fingers become properly entangled within it. "Though others might think you daft for your selective inability to speak, you are no doubt individualistic and intelligent. Hufflepuff is a joke, and I would sooner hex you than allow you to become a Gryffindor. Courage doesn't quite ring true with you, though neither does cowardice."

Rubbing her eyes, Hem realises that she's becoming tired as she yawns. She's going to leave soon, as the beginnings of fatigue are always a sign that she'll wake up shortly after. He understands this, and as much as he's simultaneously frustrated and fascinated by her… Tom doesn't like to be left alone here. Or at least, that's what she surmises from his reactions whenever he notices her becoming drowsy.

His grip on her hair tightens. "Though, I think it might do you good to be in Slytherin. I daresay that you have a large amount of potential, despite your lacklustre outlook on life," he adds, his tone of voice suggesting that he truly does want her placed in Slytherin, rather than in Ravenclaw. Though she's uncertain as to whether it's because he truly wants her to live up to her potential, or because of his bias. Perhaps both.

She's almost curious to know how he'll react, learning that she's one of those filthy mudbloods that supposedly steals magic from their superiors. Some part of her takes dark satisfaction in the knowledge that he touches her, willingly, and that he allows her to touch him. He's filthy too, according to his own beliefs; he's just unaware of it. It's the misfortune of being delusional, truly.

Resting against his form, they fall into an almost comfortable silence as Hem readies herself for another arduous day of life. Where her family feel likes strangers when they quite obviously shouldn't; where her house feels unfamiliar and she wallows in a shallow sense of guilt for being unable to feel much about the entire situation.

His hand slides from her hair to the back of her neck, almost as though he's ready to choke her or snap her neck. She knows that he's attempting to keep her awake, perhaps by instilling wariness into her. It fails.

"I won't see you when I go," Hem states, with no sense of uncertainty at the fact. His chest vibrates as he reluctantly hums in displeased agreement. "Are you sure you would have liked me around, where others could see us?"

His grasp on her neck tenses. Tom has a reputation that he's obsessed with keeping; she would undoubtedly tarnish it. He has an abundance of masks that he can easily put on, just as she can easily tear them off without even meaning to. Perhaps meeting in the real world could have some unexpected consequences, because despite knowing that they are both very much real; they still meet only within their dreams.

She could be a figment of his imagination, and he hers. But they know better than that.

"You would cause me hell, indeed," he whispers, a mix of irritation and strangled affection lacing his voice. He has a nice voice, so there is no doubt that he uses it to his advantage when he can. "I'd still want to meet you in the real world. That way…" he leans closer, his breath fanning against the hair that covers her ear. She twitches. "I can actually cause you pain."

The unbidden smile that spreads across her lips is as alarming to her as it is to him. Tom leans back, blinking in surprise when she turns her head towards him. Her facial muscles ache in a numb sort of fashion, but the genuine mirth thrumming within her chest makes up for it. Touching the edges of her mouth, she notes how it's not truly a smile that stretches her face to its limits. It feels like it, but it's not. She doesn't smile often. It's not a deliberate choice of hers to do so.

Hem doesn't know what to say, and it would seem that neither does he. He focuses an intense scowl on the unfamiliar contortion of her lips, both bewildered and aggravated. His grip on her neck would be painful in reality, she thinks, if she judges from the pressure.

Her smile soon fades away just as quickly as it came, then something not even she can decipher flickers across the surface of his eyes. Content to let him keep some of his inner workings a secret, she stares ahead with no particular thought in mind.

The train in the distance rumbles once more, this time sounding closer than before. It's misleading.

"Do you believe in fate?" she queries with a soft hum, knowing that he won't enjoy this kind of question. When he snorts, it's just the right reaction. He abhors the thought that life is predestined; that _his_ life is predestined. So fixated on self-reliance and choosing his own path in life, the idea of fate is a bad taste in his mouth.

She doesn't say that she believes their lives are bound by fate, or perhaps something similar. Hem doesn't know how, or why, but she truly believes that they are tied by forces much larger than the both of them. No doubt, it's not necessarily a good thing at all.

Tom's a twisted, brutally imperfect person who thinks too highly of himself. To be tied to such a being is only confirmation that her future holds something both great and terrible. It might destroy her, but she's already aware of that particular possibility. As a result, some part of her wants to destroy him in turn; likely, it's the part of her that's bitter and cruel and hides away from the light of day. Hem's not very well acquainted with it, unfortunately, being as out of touch with herself as she is.

"You always ask me questions," he notes, a reproachful tone in his voice. She doesn't respond, finding it more interesting to note to herself that she's closed her eyes and is leaning into him more fully than before. His hand has found its way back into her hair, eliciting a slight sensation of tingling. It's not unpleasant. "Do you actually care for the answers that I so graciously provide…? Or do you just enjoy listening to my voice?"

She hears wry amusement mixed with genuine annoyance in his voice. "Both," Hem answers, shifting closer to him as sleep begins to gradually secure its grasp on her. "I think you enjoy being honest with your answers, anyway, so it's mutually beneficial."

He clicks his tongue but, perhaps wisely, doesn't argue with her. The rumble of the train sounds so close now… But it never arrives. It never does.

. . .

* * *

. . .

It doesn't feel right, even though rarely anything does for her. It feels immeasurably wrong, standing within King's Cross Station and finding it so full of colour; so full of life and sound that it feels distorted to her ears. Reality feels wrong, just as it always has.

But never more so than now, in this moment. White, washed out and ethereal King's Cross Station is her sanctuary ̶ and Tom's, though he would loathe to admit it ̶ in some fashion, as it's the only place where she feels somewhat comfortable. To be standing in its polar opposite feels blasphemous, like her sanctuary has been desecrated by being so lively and bustling with people she has no care for.

Ironic, she knows, considering that her King's Cross Station is not within reality and that this one is. When they get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the feeling of discomfort intensifies.

"Hem!" someone calls, breaking through whatever little bubble she's conjured up in her head. It takes her a moment too long to remember whose voice that is, and even longer to realise whom the nickname belongs to. "Hem! Hem, what are you doing to your arm? Stop it!"

She turns then, feeling physically off-balanced and a shot of panic when someone grabs her arm. She almost draws her wand to throw a hex on reflex. But then, bushy, thick hair is the first thing she registers enough to make her pause. Caramel irises that reveal a swirl of concern and frustration are next. _This is her sister_ , eventually her mind supplies, and so it begins to calm.

" _Quoi? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_ " another voice asks, distinctly feminine and tinged with bemused alarm. _Mum_. The word doesn't connect to anything emotional. " _Oh, mon Dieu!_ Not again! I told you, Matthias, that she shouldn't be in crowds!"

Hem lowers her eyes to the arm her sister has grabbed, rather than looking back towards her parents. The angry, red marks with tinges of blood here lining her forearm are no new visuals upon her skin. She rarely ever notices when she's doing it though, which is understandably a worry.

Not to her though, she's very much used to doing things she can't particularly feel. Her family worries, and she's sorry, in some manner, that they do. It's not intentional. It's never intentional.

"Hey, sweetheart," she turns towards the masculine voice, finding its owner as he kneels down before her, "hey. Why don't you go find a nice compartment on the train, hm? Just focus on trying to find a nice compartment for you and Hermione, yeah? She'll catch up with you after your mother and I chat with her for a bit."

Matthias, or _Dad_ , gently pries her arm from Hermione and begins to caress her pulse with his thumb in a soothing manner. She stares at the motion before he gestures that she should look up at him instead. _He has nice eyes_ , she's reminded whenever she looks at them. A nice shade of cobalt, further lightened by the compassionate sparkle of emotion.

He still feels like a stranger, as do they all. It bothers her. They care, so clearly. She wants to as well. There is no doubt about that.

"But Dad!" Hermione protests, drawing their attention. "Are you sure she should be left alone? What if ̶ ! What if someone starts talking to her and she doesn't respond, so they ̶ … They start _picking_ on her? Or someone bumps into her and she attacks them on reflex, without an explanation as to why! And I'm not there to make them stop and understand?"

People picking on her doesn't happen too often, mostly because she rarely goes outside anymore and they pulled her out of muggle schooling early on. Hem doesn't like to be in such strenuous, stressful situations, so the arrangement was, and still is, fine. Tom would probably encourage that she go, just because he's rather hell-bent on the idea of her fighting back. It's likely why she's never told him, and probably won't care to do so any time in the near future.

The idea of her going to a magical boarding school full of magical children understandably raises some concerns. Regardless of the fact that Professor McGonagall has assured them all that she would be regularly checked upon during her time there. Since they don't usually have a magical equivalent of a school counsellor, they've recently hired one; just for her, and maybe for others. It's doubtful, though.

She understands why her sister is worried, as it's daunting and Hermione's always been over-protective as is generally expected of an elder sibling. Even when Hermione herself has her own problems to deal with.

In a noticeably jarring movement, Hem pats Dad on the shoulder in a silent communication of confirmation and reassurance. He gives her an affectionate smile, then proceeds to hug her. She doesn't hug back, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless; even if it feels strange. When he releases her, she turns to Mum and blinks up at her.

Mum is on the verge of crying, but she attempts a watery smile as she crouches down. " _Essaie de bien prendre soin de toi, d'accord ma chérie?_ " she imparts, before wrapping her in a tight embrace. Hem holds her breath, feeling like she's suffocating but unwilling and unable to say much on the matter. Eventually, Mum releases her and stands back to her tall, full height.

" _Je ferai de mon mieux..._ " Hem manages to whisper, though she doesn't think it a conscious effort. Never feels as such. Mum's eyes light up at the rare response, and Hem supposes that the bright and delighted smile is worth the discomfort of talking without being consciously aware of doing such a thing whenever it happens.

Turning and remembering to focus on finding a nice compartment, she absentmindedly pats Hermione on the arm before making her way towards the train. If her sister says anything, it's drained out and turned into white noise with everything else.

She has a relatively easy time dodging past people, as her body is essentially always on autopilot and does many things without much conscious effort at all. It's a bad habit though, she's aware, as she can be easily startled if someone accidentally touches her or there's a loud noise. The results are usually not pleasant, for either party. Tom would like that too, so she doesn't say anything about that either.

Peculiar as it may be, she finds him griping about her lack of 'motivation' comforting. Him encouraging her to _actively_ hurt people, knowing that she's unintentionally done it before, would be quite draining to deal with. He would get that wild gleam in his eyes, where his thoughts are altogether too far and too short as he thinks of possibilities and potential.

"Do you ̶ " a voice starts, then cuts off, which violently pulls her from her thoughts. "Do you mind if I sit here? All the compartments are starting to fill up, and I'd much rather a few people to sit with than a whole lot."

Hem forces out an exhale, her eyes scouring her surroundings and taking note that she's already found herself a nice compartment. She doesn't know how long she's been sitting there, but she discards the thought to look at the boy by the compartment door.

She registers glasses first, then the striking green eyes behind them. Uncertainty lies in them, with a smidgen of awkward curiosity. His hair of inky black is a dishevelled mess, with unruly bangs hanging in his face. Something niggles at her head about him, prompting her to focus on that for a moment before she remembers that he's asked a question and she hasn't answered yet.

Gesturing to the seat opposite of her, he blinks at her before bestowing her a grateful smile and entering the compartment. Hermione won't mind, though Hem's not entirely sure about whether _he_ would mind her sister or not.

"Thanks," he says, sitting down across from her. He takes note of how she's curled up in her seat, her legs to her chest and her arms securing them in place. "I'm Harry Potter, it's… It's nice to meet you."

Harry holds out a hand for her to shake. She blinks at it before gingerly leaning forward and taking his hand in hers. Like her other senses, touch is distorted, and so the sensation of his skin on hers feels weird. Textured in a way she feels like it shouldn't be.

She wants to reply and introduce herself, but the words don't come. In fact, she doesn't expect them to. So silence is his response and it's up to him on how he reacts. Some react poorly, others alright. There hasn't been one that's taken it entirely in stride yet.

He frowns at her but shakes her hand before releasing it and leaning back. "Um… Well, alright. If you… don't want to tell me your name, that's fine," he assures her, his tone dubious but nonetheless polite. A few moments, perhaps, pass in silence.

Hem tilts her head and blinks at him, scrutinising him for a few moments. He seems uncomfortable, and she knows that she's the cause of his discomfort. She watches his eyes drop downwards, then watches them widen in alarm.

"Um, hey! Stop that!" he exclaims, reaching forward to grab her arm. She tenses, trying to reinforce the thought that Harry's not going to hurt her. He grabs her wrists, being surprisingly gentle in the process, and pries her hand from her arm.

His glasses are broken, she notes. Hermione found a simple spell to fix eyeglasses not too long ago. Maybe she'll fix them for him.

Harry's eyes sweep over her arms, shocked to find an amalgamation of little scars clustered together upon her skin. His contact with her is starting to make her skin tingle, which is both uncomfortable and somehow vaguely pleasant at the same time.

Something sad and profoundly understanding takes hold of his gaze, a mild frown forming on his face as he stares down at her arms. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable…" he whispers in apology, sliding his hands from her wrists to her hands. Blood and skin are stuck under her fingernails. "I can… I can go if you want me to."

She feels something dull prod at her chest. Harry is a kind, intuitive person. Actively reciprocating his touch, they now seem to be holding hands. It's rather strange, however, it's nice in its own way. He raises his head to meet her eyes, and she offers him a slight shake of her head.

His smile is soft and genuine. "Then I'll stay," he nods, decisively, before belatedly realising that they're holding hands. Startled, the tips of his ears and width of his cheeks begin to redden as he hastily pulls back from her. She feels no hurt from his reaction. "U-uh, well," he coughs, scratching the side of his head in an unconscious show of awkwardness. "I can, uh, show you my scar. You know, since I've seen yours. It, um, only seems… right?"

When her cheeks begin to ache in a dull fashion, she brings her hand up to feel the pull of a smile on her face. Deciding to let the curiosity go, she gives a slow nod in an answer to Harry's flustered offer.

A sheepish smile graces his face as he tilts his head and brings a hand up to push his bangs out of his face. Her eyes land on the mark that mars his forehead, resembling lightning as it branches out and then stops at his right brow. Something clicks.

 _Harry Potter is the Boy-Who-Lived_ , her mind finally reminds her. She almost heaves a sigh at the unsurprising delay of her mind's overall functionality.

. . .

* * *

. . .

Absently, she chews on her current jelly slug that Harry's so graciously given to her. There's a large pile between him and the ginger-haired boy known as Ronald Weasley, some spilling onto the latter's lap where an ugly rat scavenges there. Something's strange about it; off, in a way that she can't pinpoint how.

Hermione's opted to decline the offer of sweets, being a stickler for rules and whatnot. Only on Hallowe'en, as per Mum and Dad's request. Unfortunately, Hem has quite the sweet tooth since they don't taste quite as dull as other food. They don't like that she has to use an abnormal amount of salt for food like steak in order to taste something, either.

"So, this Selection Mutism thing, then," Ron starts, his mouth full and accompanied by obnoxiously loud chewing, "how does it work? I mean, your sister's perfectly capable of talking. So she's not _really_ mute, is she?"

Her sister slams shut her heavy book, eliciting simultaneous jolts from the boys before them at the abrupt thud. " _Selective_ Mutism," Hermione corrects, her tone a mix of righteous indignation and annoyance on Hem's behalf, "is an anxiety disorder characterised by a child's inability to speak and communicate effectively in select social settings, such as school; though they are fully capable of speech. It's a mental illness that debilitates her from speaking because she's afraid to do as much, and of social interactions where there is an expectation to speak and communicate."

Ron frowns in confusion, trying to sort that out within his mind and failing. "But why's she afraid of that? There's nothing scary about talking," he retorts, looking at the girl in question with a particular expression Hem translates as, _'Gosh, this one must be mental'_. Though it doesn't offend her too much, there's just something generally unpleasant about Ronald Weasley to her.

Hermione sharply inhales, closing her eyes and likely counting to ten. Hem makes eye contact with Harry, who gives her a helpless shrug of his shoulders and an apologetic smile. Then, he gives her another jelly slug, and she grabs it even before the realisation that she's finished her current one already. Her lips don't contort into a smile again, despite wanting to in a silent show of gratitude. He gives her an understanding smile, so she theorises that he already knows she's grateful.

Harry reminds her of Tom, though the latter's far less kind and boyish. They both have some aura of comfort for her, regardless of how opposite they are from one another. Tom might growl at her if she ever tells him that he reminds her of someone else, what with him being territorial and fixated on his own unique existence.

"Are you afraid of anything, Ron?" her sister inquires, breaking the silence and pinning the boy in question with a cool and scrutinising gaze. "And if you are, how would you feel if I belittled your fear? That there's nothing scary about whatever it is you're afraid of? Would you be terribly offended?"

"Uh," Ron turns to Harry, who raises his brows at the former, "I mean, yeah, probably."

Harry and Hermione stare at him for a few moments, clearly waiting for the gluttonous boy to say something else. But when several moments pass with bated silence, they both release an exasperated sigh. Hem, with a certain unconscious disregard for manners, grits her teeth and pulls on her jelly slug.

It snaps, and she chews on the bit in her mouth in silence. It tastes nice.

"You just belittled Hem's fear of talking and social interaction," Harry provides with another sigh, taking his newly fixed glasses off and cleaning them with his shirt, "which is so severe that it's become an anxiety disorder and makes her life rather difficult. On top of that, she has that other disorder that has its own debilitating symptoms. She has to deal with all of that on a daily basis."

Ron's eyes light up with realisation, his ears beginning to become pink in his shame as he turns to Hem with a bowed head and a somewhat sheepish smile. He opens his mouth to speak but wisely decides to swallow his food first.

"Oh… Right," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. His eyes lower off to the side. "Sorry, Hem. I didn't mean to insult you."

Hem blinks at him, resisting the urge to reach up and scratch the side of her neck in her discomfort. With some difficulty, she simply nods in acceptance and attempts to curl further into the seat. Ron is unintentionally insensitive, but she supposes he means well. She still feels very little about his existence, but that's less a fault of his own and more hers.

Silence lapses back over the compartment, save for the occasional squeaks of that rat and the chewing that sounds too loud in her ears. The chugging of the train is almost relaxing in its repetitive nature, but it doesn't feel right or real. It's meant to be rumbling in the distance, never to arrive.

Uncomfortable, but not surprised in the least, the surreal sensations surrounding her strengthen, as it generally does at random intervals. As though she's been pushed out of her own body but remains tethered, so she's forced to watch herself from above. Like a movie, or a dream that isn't very interesting.

"Hem?" a soft, vaguely cautious voice calls. It drags her out of her thoughts, and she blinks in an attempt to focus on what's in front of her. "Hem, Hermione said that we should go and change our robes now. We're going to be arriving soon, I think."

Hem sniffs before rubbing her nose as she raises her head to meet Harry's gaze. He stands before her, peering down at her with a concerned frown through his glasses. Sniffing again, she nods in agreement as she looks about the compartment to see that Hermione's still reading and Ron has probably gone to change his robes. Her sister's been wearing her school robes since the beginning, so there's no need for her to change.

"You were really out of it, huh?" Harry murmurs as he moves back to let her stand. He seems more curious and mildly amused than critical of her and her atypical behaviour.

Her sister snaps her head up at the remark. "She has no concept of time, you see," she immediately begins to explain, unconsciously straightening her back and raising her chin as she's wont to do during informative impartments. "So a few hours can feel like a few minutes to her; or a few minutes can feel like hours. One of the many symptoms of Depersonalisation-Derealisation Disorder, I'm afraid."

One might find Hermione's insatiable desire for knowledge and to explain such knowledge to others… off-putting, Hem supposes. It's been something of a problem for her elder sister, as it's caused some of her own experiences with bullying. But Hermione is strong and aspires to be strong for the sake of her little sister. It's admirable and it's enviable.

The emotional disconnect is jarring, but Hem knows she still appreciates her sister and her parents as much as she's able. So she pats Hermione on the knee in a small display of affection. It achieves the expected response, where her sister beams up at her. Hem's face doesn't twitch, but the sight is appreciated nonetheless.

Hem and Harry leave the compartment to make their way to the changing rooms. She doesn't know where it is, but it would seem Harry does, so she attempts to follow his lead while actively trying to avoid bumping into anyone. Multitasking isn't one of her strong suits, however, so it's not long before Harry simply grabs hold of the crook of her elbow to physically lead her along.

"You know," he begins, adjusting his glasses, "the two of you can be a little… intense, in your own ways, but I think you're alright. The both of you. Ron, too, even if he's a little insensitive. I, um, I think we might all just get on well. I'd like to, anyway."

 _Perhaps_ , she allows. Ron and Hermione don't seem to think too highly of each other, after all. But Hermione and Harry seem to have reached an understanding in regards to Hem, so there may be hope yet.

. . .

* * *

. . .

Her body attempts to force breath out of her, as her mind struggles to comprehend more than, _'It's too much, it's too much!'_. Perhaps the castle of Hogwarts would be as impressive in her eyes if she weren't on the verge of an anxiety attack, and déjà vu wasn't plaguing the back of her mind. Unfortunately, both instances are quite present.

"It's okay, Hem, it's okay," a voice whispers in an attempt of comfort, accompanied by the reassuring squeeze of her left hand. Then, by another squeeze of her right.

The world, gradually, begins to clear in her mind's eye; visual snow beginning to melt. She's greeted by the worried expressions of her sister and Harry's, with a perplexed one from Ron, who has leaned forward to look at her from Harry's other side. Hem exhales, willing herself to calm with some limited success. There are people behind her, and she can feel them at her back. It's uncomfortable. It's suffocating.

"So it's true, then," a smug, somewhat unpleasant voice begins, "Harry Potter's come to Hogwarts."

Whispers break out, prompting a flinch. She hopes that she's not holding onto their hands too tightly, as that would be unfortunate. Hermione and Harry have their shoulders up against hers, close enough that their robes seem to hide the fact their hands are joined.

Her right hand is squeezed again, but it seems to be involuntary. She consciously makes an effort to squeeze back, blinking with wide eyes when Harry glances at her with discomfort in his gaze. It takes her a moment for her mind to supply that the cause is the whispers as well; they're about him, after all.

Startling platinum blonde hair is what she first registers when a boy strides past her to stand in front of Harry. "My name's Malfoy," the blonde introduces himself, with less intended sophistication and more subconscious arrogance, "Draco Malfoy. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Ron snorts at that, causing Draco to snap his head towards the latter with a sneer. "Think my name's funny, do you?" he queries in a rhetorical fashion, his eyes of pewter grey sizing up the young Weasley. "No need to inform me of your name. Red hair, and a hand-me-down robe? You must be a Weasley."

Harry's grip on her hand tightens once more, this time in righteous irritation as Draco looks back to Harry. Hem supposes it's only right, seeing as how much he already cares about her, that he would be insulted on Ron's behalf.

Something about her must have caught Draco's attention, as he briefly flickers his eyes to her and Hermione before looking back to Harry. He does a double-take, his distaste becoming clear on his face as he looks between the two sisters and their similarly unruly hair.

"Not quite sure who the both of you are," he mutters, speculative as he looks them over and notices how close Hem is to Harry, "what are your names?"

He's a pure-blood, her mind informs her, and uncharacteristically, it immediately leads her to the reminder that pure-bloods don't like muggle-born witches and wizards. _It must be Tom's influence_ , she thinks absently. When she sees her sister open her mouth to respond, she's already resigned and expectant of his reaction. He, along with others, would learn later anyway even without this moment. Might as well get it over with.

"You probably wouldn't know us, seeing as our parents are muggles," Hermione answers, consciously raising her chin in defiance and pride. "We're muggle-born."

His distaste becomes full-blown disgust, and her sister's grip tightens. "Mudbloods," he spits, looking between them before settling back on Harry with a peculiar sense of urgency. The crowd around them erupt in shocked whispers at such crude language, or in disgusted hisses and groans.

It's not the first time she's heard of the insult, seeing as she visits an adolescent boy who enjoys throwing the word around a lot in her dreams. Hermione has only read about it, but her understanding of the word allows her to be quite offended and hurt by the remark thrown in her face.

"There are some wizarding families that are better than others," Draco starts, looking to Ron, then to her and Hermione, "and wizarding families will always be better than those with _muggles_ for parents, of all things. I can certainly help you, Potter, pick the good from the bad."

He thrusts a hand out for Harry to take, but the latter merely glances down at it as though it's a nuisance. "I think I can figure out the good from the bad on my own, thanks," the Boy-Who-Lived returns, rather primly and righteously offended at that.

Hem, quite abruptly, feels exhaustion weigh down her shoulders. To the point that walking into the Great Hall with every older student looking at the group of First Years is much less of an affair that she would've expected. Truly, she practically forgets they're there and stares unseeingly at the floor until Harry nudges her and forces her attention.

"I… They called my name," he tells her, an apology in his eyes. She blinks at him, her mind struggling to catch up until she realises that they're being Sorted and his name has been called. In silence, she releases her hold on him in a rather stiff manner and he goes to sit on the stool to have a ratty hat placed on his head. The Sorting Hat.

Glancing around, she takes notice of how a majority of how other First Years have already been Sorted. Hem shuffles closer to Hermione, though she doesn't mean to. Her sister doesn't protest though, apparently comforted by the action.

" _GRYFFINDOR!_ " the Hat announces, and the dead, bated silence previously reigning over the Great Hall is dethroned by uproarious cheers and clapping. It's too loud in her ears. She doesn't notice that she's started scratching her side with her free hand because of it until Hermione uses her own free hand to stop her unconscious action.

Harry smiles, clearly pleased with his chosen House, and begins to make his way over to the Gryffindor table. He glances at her half-way there and imparts an encouraging smile. She doesn't return it, though she would have probably smiled if she were really in control of herself. She blinks at him, instead, with perhaps the slightest inclination of a nod.

Some others are called after that, but she doesn't pay much attention until a vaguely familiar name is called.

"Hemera Granger!" Professor McGonagall calls, lifting her gaze from the parchment in her grasps to sweep her gaze over the dwindling crowd of First Years. When her gaze settles on Hem, it noticeably softens and the severe woman gives a coaxing nod.

Hem's body freezes of its own accord, her mind quickly catching up on the fact that she's to sit in front of the entire student body of Hogwarts for however many minutes; minutes that may feel like hours. Whispers begin to break out, but it quickly becomes nothing but static in her ears.

She flinches and instinctively reaches for her wand ̶ though it doesn't work, as she finds both of her hands in the grasp of others ̶ when she finally notices Professor McGonagall standing before her. Her gaze falls to the hand the elderly woman is holding, then back to the hand that connected with Hermione's.

"It's okay, Hem," her sister assures her, rubbing Hem's arm before relinquishing her hold and standing back, "you're okay."

A blatant lie, but she clings to the idea as numbness settles into her skin and she's led to the stool by Professor McGonagall. Once she's seated, and the Professor lets go of her hand, she immediately brings her legs to her chest as the Sorting Hat is placed upon her head.

She's grateful for the way it conceals her view of the students before her _. "Well, well… What do we have here? Your mind is a mess, my dear,"_ it remarks, quite bluntly.

Hem doesn't respond, not even within her own mind. It feels strange, having some magical entity in her head that's trying to get a read on her. There's some part of her that wants to push it out, and another part that says that she could, if she really wants to. Something instinctive and inexplicable assures her that the meetings with Tom will remain a secret, however. So she doesn't push the Hat away.

 _"I believe we've met before, you and I…"_ it murmurs in contemplation, more to itself than to her. _"But no, we couldn't possibly… So much older, so very, very jaded… But then, what is truly impossible in a world full of magic? Stop scratching your arm, my dear."_

She does so, not surprised by her lack of awareness of her actions nor by the Hat's unexpected order.

 _"Truly, it's quite difficult to figure you out,"_ the Hat hums, swaying slightly on her head. _"You're intelligent, of that there is no doubt… Wise beyond your years, indeed… With a sense of loyalty to your family, though it's quite difficult for you to emotionally connect with them… Oh, you have quite the sense of self-preservation, as well! Resourceful, if you must be… Hardworking when you want to succeed… But you have little care for much of anything, don't you?_

 _Lacking in ambition and courage, too easily resigned to the misfortune thrust upon you… But I can see such potential… Such potential, indeed. You could become something truly great. Surely, you need to be challenged in order to reach your full potential… Yes, I believe it is so._

 _I should say that you would truly unlock your potential if you were to be placed in the House of SLYTHERIN!"_

She jolts, nearly falling off the stool but managing to catch herself in time. The Sorting Hat is removed, and the reality of her situation kicks her in the stomach. She stands, before everyone, making eye contact with a shocked Hermione. From the corner of her eye, she can see Ron looking revolted and somehow, betrayed.

Her gaze lifts from her sister to the Slytherin table, where only a few clap out of sheer politeness. Then, quite abruptly, the sensation of being within a movie strengthens to the point that she has no choice but to become detached from her situation. It's too bright.

It's only the first day, she thinks, with some sense of bitterness and distantly wry amusement. Tom would be immeasurably pleased, wouldn't he?

In fact, she has no doubt that he would; that he will be.

. . .

* * *

. . .

Her footfalls are silent against the stark white pavement, though it comes as no surprise. It's a comfort, in its own little way; her footfalls within the halls of Hogwarts are too loud in her ears, in such a fashion that she can't simply ignore it. Other footfalls are worse, as they set her on edge and make her much more prone to violent but unintended reactions.

She finds Tom at their usual bench, looking rather dour as he glares at the ground and twirls his wand within his right hand. It reminds her of her own wand, that she holds in her left with an iron grip. They follow too now, though she doesn't fully understand why.

Wearing robes similar to his own, his head snaps up when he spots Hem in his peripheral. It almost seems like it hurts, but surely he wouldn't notice nor care, what with the tumultuous expression he greets her with implying otherwise.

His grip on the backrest of the bench noticeably tightens, and he seems to struggle between remaining seated and standing up to confront her. He's been getting awfully testy of late, though she supposes that it's somewhat her fault. She doesn't mean to leave him all alone for however long she does, though.

Anxious aggravation radiates from his form, his eyes roving over her form as though to look for any obvious injuries. He's been doing that lately, and if he does find one, he becomes quite persistent in his nagging. He doesn't seem to even notice his erratic behaviour, more often than not.

"You're late," Tom accuses her with a hiss, once she's within range. He scans over her again as he leans forward, his eyes narrowed and far too intense. None of this is the first time, so she's become quite accustomed to it all.

Up until her arrival at Hogwarts, it was usually her who'd arrive first then wait for the other. Nowadays, their roles have changed and it pleases neither of them. She's always been content to wait by watching the looping sky, but all he has to distract himself is his thoughts; something that can quickly boil into something dangerous.

Hem blinks at him, finding herself to be only the slightest bit taller than him as he sits before her. "My mattress, pillow, curtains, and blankets are shredded. Most definitely jinxed, as well. I decided that it was a good opportunity to go to the library, but I think I fell asleep in the Restricted Section. I should think that my Disillusionment Charm will hold since I've been using it quite a lot of late," she explains, gradually becoming accustomed to longer sentences. There's still a way to go in the real world, but at the very least, she can communicate with Harry and Hermione a little easier with rudimentary sentences.

All she has time to do when her vexed companion swiftly grabs her arm is a jolt, before she's practically thrown into the bench and the positions between them have been reversed. Though, she supposes when she reorientates herself, that she certainly wasn't looming over Tom like some kind of furious demon. She doesn't think that she's even capable of being furious in the first place.

He sneers down at her, using the backseat to steady himself as he leans over her. "What is _wrong_ with you?" he demands, using his other hand that's not propping him up to snake a hand into her hair. He pulls on her locks, forcing her to look up at him. "Why don't you fight back, even now? Even when they treat you like scum beneath their shoes and bully you?!"

His eyes are wild, flickering between ruby and obsidian in a mildly alarming manner. He's likely drawing parallels from his own experiences and is quite frustrated with the fact that she's not retaliating as he does and has. This has been going on for a few months now, her school troubles, and it seems that it affects Tom far more than it does Hem.

It's not nice, what she's going through, she understands. She just struggles to feel more than anxiety and paranoia, her emotions locked up in a place that she can't reach. The positive, at least, is that she's improving her repertoire of knowledge of spells; though more out of necessity than because of a simple, unadulterated interest like what Hermione has.

The single-minded focus on learning what she must helps, Hem would say. In a bonus effect, almost no one tries to sneak up on her anymore, having quickly learned of what she's instinctively capable of. Her self-preservation is perhaps one of her strongest traits as a Slytherin. So they just ruin her belongings now or attempt to inconvenience her without startling her. She's resigned, and mostly indifferent to it all.

"Did you know," she murmurs, drawing her legs to her chest as she stares up at him, "that I'm a mudblood, Tom?"

He flinches, violently so, and she expects him to rip his hand away from her hair ̶ likely pulling some strands with him ̶ to wipe it on his robes in disgust. His grip on her hair does falter, however it only tightens moments later to a degree where she can almost feel the pain.

Tom's glare is quite ferocious in its battle of chaotic emotions. He's always been of the idea that she's been discriminated against, solely because of her mental illnesses; it's considered a weakness, and truly, weakness is clearly not tolerated amongst 'mighty' Slytherins. Though, she supposes that he might factor in her appearance as a cause for discrimination. If only because of the state of her hair, since racism because of skin is more of a muggle custom than wizarding.

Never once, she's noticed, has he doubted that if not a pure-blood, then at least she's a half-blood like himself. He's never bothered to pry too much about her parents, satisfied with the knowledge that her mother, Theia, is an African French woman and that, surely, she's a witch herself; a fact that he needn't bother to confirm. The very idea of her being a muggle-born, a _mudblood_ , is preposterous; she's connected to him, somehow, so _of course_ she can't be a mudblood.

Some part of her has always been darkly satisfied that he's been wrong from the very beginning. It thrums through her veins. They've always had an unspoken rule to disregard the fact that neither knows the other's last name. There's also the fact that, unbeknownst to him, he doesn't know her full first name either. Though Hem's not entirely sure whether or not he could figure out her heritage if he knew beforehand, it's worked out in her favour regardless.

She blinks when Tom shuts his eyes, a terrible frown marring his face before her vision is blurred from him pressing his forehead against hers. He's not gentle about it either; it's as though he's trying to physically force his way into her head to figure her out.

He forces his breathing to steady, and then all too quickly he drags Hem to her feet in a flurry of motion. The hand tangled in her hair is suddenly at her shoulders, the other that he used to prop himself up now at her neck; his wand in between. Nothing is soft about his touch.

"The world's done you a disservice as well…" he murmurs, as she raises her head up to meet his gaze. Fury still dances ferociously in the depths of his eyes, but she finds steely determination mingled in. A sigh escapes her lips, his eyes flickering to them in a moment of distraction. He frowns at the marks she's caused by excessively picking the dead skin off her lips.

She tilts her head up at him. "You knew that already, didn't you?" she inquires, though she already knows the answer to her question. "Or does the fact that my blood is filthy make you re-evaluate just how much?"

His lips thin out as he returns his gaze to her own. "You're an exception," Tom states, with such deluded conviction. She's not surprised in the least. "You understand that, don't you? Because you're connected to me, so of course you're going to be an exception. It's unfortunate, but it doesn't matter so long as you manage to prove yourself."

A long, drawn-out sigh leaves her, and Hem grabs onto his wrists in a poor attempt to pry them off of her after pocketing her wand. His gaze sharpens in annoyance, and in retaliation, he simply strengthens his hold on her. She tries next to lean away from his touch, prompting an actual hiss from him that almost makes her smile.

"To whom? And of what?" she wonders, finding an anomalous satisfaction in scratching the skin of his unmarred wrists. He seems vaguely perplexed by it, but lets it go to focus on her queries.

"To everyone," he replies, a slow, predatory smile contorting his lips. "That you're better, whether they be pure of blood or not; you _will_ be better because you're connected to me. I can't have you so weak and resigned, waiting to be crushed by those inferior to you. You need to prove to your fellow Slytherins that you're not someone to be trifled with, whether directly or indirectly. You need to prove to them, that you will _crush_ them should they foolishly do so anyway."

With his eyes alight with visions of a future carved by his flawed ideals, she thinks that it truly _is_ strange that his presence is even somewhat comforting. Tom's fixation on their connection is rather obsessive and narcissistic, though she can't bother to call him out on it. It won't change anything.

"Are you going to take me under your wing to make me worthy of my tie to you?" Hem questions him. Though her tone is neutral, she can imagine smidgens of sarcasm hidden within it. "Teach me all the Dark Arts and spells that you know, since our wands have materialised with us for reasons unknown?"

The gleam in his eyes tells her everything she needs to know. She thinks that he may be aggravated by her lack of emotion about it all. Resignation always lays heavily within her gut, rather than anything else. There is no excitement for the knowledge of new spells and techniques from someone as intelligent as he. No frustration or determination at having little choice in the manner.

"You're insufferable," he informs her with a familiar sneer, finally releasing her and standing back to his full height. "Why can't you be a little more grateful that I'm willing to do what I can to help you succeed? I could simply _not_ help, you understand."

She squints up at him then, scratching the side of her neck and unintentionally scraping off some scabs with her nails. A few moments pass before he scoffs and averts his gaze, knowing that his last sentence is little more than a blatant lie.

"Are you going to sit?" she queries, tilting her head as she steps back and sits on the bench again. He scowls at her but eventually answers her by moving to sit beside her as she brings her legs up to her chest.

Hem doesn't want to hurt anyone, not even Draco and his merry band of misfits. But she knows that there's truth in the fact that she needs to be better if she truly wants it all to stop.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, she just wants to rest and listen to Tom eloquently blabber about how he'll dominate the world.

* * *

 **A/N:** In order to attempt a break in my bad habit, I've uploaded this when I only have this chapter so far. I would've liked to have more chapters first, but I tend to stray from my stories after the first and I have a bad perfectionist attitude; this is an attempt to fix that, even if temporary. (Meaning encouragement may help, and will thusly be very much appreciated.) As a result, my updating schedule will be sporadic. I'm sorry about that.

Also, to clarify; yes, Hermione and Hemera are biracial in this story. It's not going to be a big deal, I just thought it would be interesting to do so. I apologise if this puts you off.

Translations: (Thanks to Gladoo89, I have better translations.)

 _Quoi? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_ \- What? What's the matter/problem?

 _Oh, mon Dieu!_ \- Oh, my God!

 _Essaie de bien prendre soin de toi, d'accord ma chérie?_ \- Do your best to take care (of yourself) my dear, alright?

 _Je ferai de mon mieux..._ \- I'll do my best...

Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I'd like to say thank you, to all those who favourited, followed and especially to those whom reviewed; your thoughts give me something to look forward to.

Moving on from that, my beta is currently busy for a while, so he wasn't able to read through this chapter and won't be able to read through some future chapters. Because of that, the quality might not be as great and I don't know if I'm doing anything right. Hopefully you enjoy it, anyway.

* * *

There's a room that was added before the start of the school term, on the same floor as the Hospital Wing. It's a room intended to be an office for the Healer, Kenelm Cheshire. She supposes that it's also a room intended for her, seeing as it all started with Hem's mental illnesses.

One might wonder why there hasn't been a magical equivalent of a school counsellor before. Surely, there's been students before her with severe mental illnesses just as she. But then, she supposes that school counsellors are more of a muggle custom than wizarding. One that Mum and Dad had insisted upon when they learned there was no magical equivalent. Being a prestigious school of magic, the request was fulfilled rather easily.

She's meant to be familiar with Sir Kenelm's office, seeing as she visits every other day when someone ̶ generally Hermione or Harry, and occasionally Ron ̶ reminds her to do so. Hem's meant to be a lot of things, but she continues to fall short regardless. So she's about as accustomed to his office as much as she's accustomed to her own room back home; which is not a lot, shamefully.

It's still marginally better in Sir Kenelm's office than it is just about everywhere else, of course. It shares that quality with her room, the one that she shares with Hermione. The difference here is that one part of his office remains the same whilst the rest is always changing. As though he's never satisfied with where his belongings are placed. It's a mess that she tends to overlook, having no particular preference for either a neat room or an untidy one. It's all the same to her.

His mahogany desk lies at the end of the room, right across from the door. A black loveseat is situated in front of it, close enough that one may reach over to grab the jar of jelly slugs from the edge of the desk if they wanted to. Both items ̶ the jar of jelly slugs and the black loveseat ̶ are there for her benefit. He has another seat, designated for others. Anything else though, she's not bothered to notice.

"Hemera," Sir Kenelm greets with an unfeigned smile in his voice, as she appears by the door, "it's good to see you alive. I hope you enjoyed your stay in France for the Christmas holidays."

She blinks at him, automatically stepping forward so that the door may close without her being in the way. The trip to France feels so long ago if she thinks about it, but all her experiences feel like that. Sorting through the memories associated with the trip, she can't say that she did enjoy it. The emotions aren't connecting to them, not unexpectedly so. It all still feels like pieces from a movie. That hasn't changed.

Familiar with her general lack of responses, Sir Kenelm simply hums with a light smile and gestures to the loveseat with his hand. He pointedly doesn't resume writing down whatever on his piece of parchment, perhaps under the impression that he must give her his full attention lest he gives her an impression of disinterest. Hem wouldn't mind either way and isn't sure whether the gesture is appreciated or not. She supposes that it's more likely to be the former since he's not opposed to a casual show of disrespect to those whom he dislikes. The fact that he's putting effort into giving her the right impression is clear of his partiality towards her, however baffling it may be.

Taking a seat and bringing her legs to her chest as she's wont to do, she watches him as he reorganises the things on his desk with a wave of his wand. She's of the opinion that he's lazy, seeing as there isn't much to sort in the first place. Reaching over and plucking a jelly slug from the jar, Hem decides that it doesn't matter anyway and proceeds to refresh her mind of his facial features.

It's been a task that he's set for her; to recognise him should they cross paths in one of the corridors. She has a bad habit of focusing on destinations more than the people around her, being as such because it doesn't help improve her situational awareness. Though her body tends to automatically manoeuvre around obstacles ̶ people, mostly ̶ the fact that she's not actively aware of her surroundings is something he wants her to work on. He wants her to pay enough attention to recognise him without consciously looking for him. Before she went on holidays, it went about as well as can be expected.

Hem has managed to associate giggling with his presence, at least. It's a peculiar sort of progress, but progress nonetheless in her opinion. Sir Kenelm is a reasonably handsome young man, so it's understandable for the female youths of the school to appreciate his aesthetics. Where the staff consists of Professor McGonagall, Flitwick and Quirrell, among others ̶ those whom young students wouldn't normally consider all that visually appealing in terms of attractiveness ̶ Sir Kenelm the Healer stands out among this particular crowd.

Personally, Professor Sinistra is quite pretty in her own manner. Professor Snape has potential as well, but his severe disposition and poorly groomed appearance squander whatever potential there is. Perhaps it's for the best, as many would be quite disturbed to put 'Professor Snape' and 'handsome' in the same sentence together. She doesn't think it really matters regardless, being one who doesn't bother with appearances herself.

Mirrors are bad for Hem, if only because she can't recognise who's looking back. The sensation of floating and drowning intensify in those moments, so she tends to avoid mirrors. She's not sure if she even owns a hairbrush, having long given up on trying with her hair. Her hair isn't as curly and voluminous as Hermione's, but it's still a handful of work to properly maintain. It's troublesome enough to keep a consistent hygiene schedule. Hermione would sometimes brush her hair when it was damp, but being in different dorms limits the possibilities of that occurring.

"What are you thinking about, hm?" Sir Kenelm's voice inquires, prompting a focusing blink on his face. He folds his arms on the surface of his desk, then uses them as a pillow as he leans forward and stares through upturned, heavy-lidded eyes. She remembers that his irises are of a fawn hue, then. "I'm thinking about how much I've missed you sitting in my chair, eating my sweets and staring at me in complete silence."

Despite the saccharine smile and tone of voice to imply some subtle sarcasm ̶ and that they both know the chair and sweets are both officially hers ̶ his words are sincere. He's an anomalous person, somehow finding genuine enjoyment from associating with two people whom aren't well-versed in the art of socialisation; herself, and Professor Snape. One rarely speaks and has a disconnected sense of self among a disconnect with the world around her; while the other is catty and has a partiality to drawling in a distinctly dramatic manner, usually to impart demeaning insults about whatever's drawn his ire.

Then again, Sir Kenelm's social skills aren't quite as up to par himself despite being a pseudo counsellor. He likes to complain with a smile that's too sweet to be real, as it seems to be his niche. Whether it's about the gaggle of admirers that like to stalk him or the gifts they try to force upon him in an attempt to gain his favour. He mainly likes to complain about the female student body and their infatuated tendencies, but sometimes he likes to complain about how annoying it is to have such long, lusciously wavy hair of hickory brown. His words, more or less. She agrees because the description is true. He has bangs that frame his face, a few locks hanging on the right side of it. The rest travels the length of his back in a wave.

Sir Kenelm is quite proud of his hair, in spite of how much he complains about how it gets in the way or how he sheds everywhere. It makes him somewhat effeminate in appearance, but he has enough masculine qualities to shine through and make it evident that he's a man. He's quite tall, for one, perhaps the height that Tom will be once he reaches adulthood. Thin, but not gangly as he moves with grace. With high cheekbones, a diamond jaw, thin lips and a sharp nose; he can almost be seen as one of those aristocratic pure-bloods.

But, as the name Cheshire is a muggle surname, it's quite obvious that he's either a half-blood or a muggle-born to wizarding society. A shame, some of them are likely to think, as if it lowers his worth because he's not pure of blood. Not that he cares, either way. He's of the opinion that the fewer people that bother him, the better. Hem has to agree, though it's likely that people will always be bothering the both of them.

She blinks when he shifts, unfolding his arms and resting his chin on the desk to reach across it; towards her. "I asked you a question, Hemera," he reminds her, wiggling his long fingers at her. They almost reach her face. "What are you thinking about?"

Hem isn't sure how to reply to that. Her body answers for her, the index finger of her left hand pointing at him as her right hand reaches for another jelly slug. Despite their close association, she still has trouble speaking to him. He helps her with his own unorthodox methods, seeing as he's a large reason why she can speak to Harry and Hermione, even if in a miniscule and rare fashion. It's still demanding, as even when she _does_ speak it's not a particularly conscious effort.

Sir Kenelm blinks in mild surprise at her response, leaning back somewhat. But then, his eyes soften and his smile widens to become something more noticeably genuine. Straightening his back and dragging his arms to his chest, the smile then colours into something teasing and light. His eyes gleam to match the emotion.

"Me?" he croons, holding his hands to his heart as though overly touched by her answer. "Why, I should've known. This must mean that you brought me a souvenir from France, surely?"

The question of jest makes her blink and pause in her diligent chewing. She has a few souvenirs, actually. Hem forgot about them until this point. The idea was Hermione's and considered them almost like a commemoration for the fact that they both have friends to give them to. There's one for Sir Kenelm, somewhere. Professor Snape, as well. She'll have to look in her trunk when she gets back, as her sister's likely tagged which souvenir is for whom for her.

Seeing her seriously contemplate the question, Sir Kenelm raises his thin brows. "You did? Well, now I'm ashamed that I have nothing but free jelly slugs to give in return. I could give you one of the gifts those insipid little girls forced upon me, but I'm afraid it may be contaminated with some kind of love serum. That would be awkward, would it not?" he leans back in his chair, grasping his chin between his index finger and thumb in thought.

It would be awkward indeed if she was to become infatuated with an unknown female peer of hers. What would an infatuated Hem do to gain their attention, she wonders? It's probably best left as a mystery.

They lapse into another bout of silence, with the occasional shuffle of fabric when they shift. It's familiar to her, and so it's comforting enough that she distantly notices some of the rigidity in her shoulders to relax. Her body is quite tense, she's taken a notice of, though she does nothing to fix it. Anything could happen at any moment, she could use as an excuse. In truth, however, she doesn't think there's much she can do to solve her wound up muscles.

"You'll bring me my souvenir next time, then?" Sir Kenelm asks of her eventually, breaking the silence and her train of thought. He tilts his head at her, hair shifting with the motion. She notices then, how long his eyelashes are. "If you bought me a souvenir, then you would've brought Severus one too. I'll have to bring him too; drag him if I must. He can also take another break from being a hero in the shadows." he murmurs the last sentence, eyes directed somewhere above and behind her in contemplation.

Well, she supposes that listening to those two complaining to each other isn't so bad. Even if it's about persistently annoying girls and a certain bespectacled boy who is apparently just like his father. It's better than sitting in a crowd of children whom generally have little understanding of how cruel they can be.

Thinking of the free tea and sweets, Hem nods in confirmation. Sir Kenelm's smile widens.

. . .

* * *

. . .

Sometimes, she forgets that she automatically executes the Disillusionment Charm whenever entering a potentially dangerous area. Which is virtually everywhere. Because she forgets, sometimes she can be sitting or standing somewhere, unacknowledged for quite some time. Usually, it's either when she realises or someone inevitably bumps into her that the charm ceases. The latter is an unfortunate situation she's been trying to avoid.

It's not uncommon for her to send someone completely innocent to the Hospital Wing. They don't tend to have a plan to startle her and start a fight, only bumping into her or surprising her by accident. Her mind doesn't sort through it all fast enough though, and her body reacts before she knows what's even happening. There are some dangerous spells floating in the back of her mind, mixed in with other spells that are less Dark by nature. Mostly Tom's fault, but she can't put on all the blame on him. She does have a habit of traversing through the Restricted Section, after all.

But like drawing lots, Hem doesn't know what spell she uses; only that they can be applied to cause harm or protect her. It's possible that one day, she might simply kill someone because of her irrational behaviour. It could be sooner rather than later because she's barely half-way through the school year and there have already been countless incidents.

So she understands why most of her peers even outside of Slytherin avoid her. She understands why they don't like her; that there are multiple reasons to dislike and fear her. She's weird. Mental. Mute. A mudblood. They whisper her chosen derogatory nickname, finding ways to fit in with each other by mocking the notably different. The strange and not easily understood. Because they don't want to be her, or those like her. Fitting in and/or feeling like they belong somewhere is predominantly what everyone wants.

Though Hem has no choice but to feel close to nothing about it all, she's quite aware of the little ball of bitterness that steadily builds itself up in the shadows of her soul. She doesn't know what it'll do, or when it'll make an appearance, but it signifies nothing positive. There's an option here, to do something about before it becomes something terrible.

She will do nothing but wait, she knows. Resignation sinks into her bones, weighing her down and making her lighter in a mix of good and bad. Perhaps she'll never be rid of it, and that'll bother Tom something chronic.

Hermione seems to be more bothered than Hem is about the situation, and that's understandable. Her sister's always been resilient against belittlement to herself, but the same can't be said if the subject of mockery is her family. It's unfortunate because now others know how to push Hermione.

If the younger sister won't have a satisfactory reaction to their scathing insults, then the elder sister surely will. Harry is in a similar category, quite clearly susceptible to insults directed to either Granger. Ron is as well, having a strong sense of loyalty once he's gotten over his Slytherin prejudices. Towards her, at least. Only her, it would seem.

In all honesty, it's not something that they should bother with. They have enough to deal with, what with them going after trolls and finding out what giant three-headed dogs guard of their own volition. They also appear to be under the impression that Professor Snape is after whatever the three-headed dog is guarding. If Hem wasn't… herself, it's likely they would've tried to make her do some espionage on him since she's in Slytherin.

She knows that her Head of House can be quite unnecessarily mean and biased, especially towards Harry. The bespectacled boy clearly brings up some bad memories for the batty teacher, though it's no excuse to treat a child who's done nothing wrong with such contempt. She knows that.

Hem just… doesn't care. She wants to, as the dull ache of guilt is still nestled somewhere in her chest. But there's not much point to, other than to be a subjectively good friend. It's not as though she can inform the two of the other's good points, for obvious reasons; she can't speak such long sentences, and neither are willing to see the good in one another anyway. Both of them are convinced the other is incapable of anything good.

She's never quite been the one to stand up for those close to her, Hermione could confirm. Just as she doesn't care for insults thrown at her, she doesn't care for insults thrown at others. There is no instinctive compulsion to defend her sister's honour and integrity, or to dissuade others that Harry is not starved for attention and that it's actually quite the opposite. No wish to impart that the poorness of the Weasley family isn't something to belittle, or that they aren't inferior just because they openly support muggle-borns and muggle culture. No desire to tell that Professor Snape has hidden depths almost no one cares to look for; that he is human with faults like any other, not a soulless bat without an ounce of good in him.

As it is, what does it matter to inform the ignorant of such things? When they don't care to know, so locked within their own beliefs that it's only a futile effort? Tom would berate her, surely, if only because she's exhibiting her resigned nature and also using these reasons as mere excuses to remain resigned. Her cynicism, however, is something he overtly approves of.

"Would Miss Mera likes some more teas?" a squeaky, but eager voice asks of her. Hem blinks, vision clearing and train of thought stopping as she turns towards the owner of said voice. One of the house-elves of the kitchens stares up at her with its wide, glistening eyes. It rubs its hands together in a show of anxiety and shuffles on its feet.

Looking down at the cup being nursed in her hands, she nods at the house-elf in confirmation for more tea upon the realisation that there's no more of the beverage left. Immensely pleased to once again be of help, the house-elf beams and snaps its fingers. Milky liquid magically fills the cup, as the surface of the table before her is filled with plates of new snacks and a pot of tea.

"Miss Mera's nearly always in the kitchens late at nights," the house-elf nods to itself, "Miss Mera's very popular amongst the house-elves heres, yes she is. Wilkie knows from the others that Miss Mera likes snacks with hers tea, he does."

That's true, she supposes. It's a common thing for her to roam the corridors at night, seeing as she's not welcome in the dorms. Hem still visits, since her trunk is there and left untouched because there is an abundance of protectives charms on every trunk to prevent theft. But most of the time, she hardly ventures to the Slytherin dungeons. It's always an arduous journey because her discomfort of being in a hostile environment affects her more than the people within said environment.

Tom was the one who informed her of where the kitchens are and how to get to it when she told him that she skips meals because it means going to the Great Hall. Hermione and the others would try to save food for her when they caught on, but they've told her it's hard to find her if they realise that she's not in the library.

"Thank you…" she hears herself whisper in gratitude. It's easier to talk if she's in a comfortable environment, and there are not so many house-elves late at night. The process is still a rather hit-or-miss, unfortunately, so being in a comfortable setting doesn't always guarantee that she'll speak. Taking a sip of her milk tea, she watches Wilkie gasp and his eyes bulge in shock.

"Miss Mera thanked Wilkie!" he exclaims, covering his mouth and looking around as if to see if anyone else has also just witnessed something shocking. "Miss Mera hardly evers talks, Wilkie knows froms the others! Wilkie's so happy to have Miss Mera's thanks, yes he is!" his eyes seem to glisten further, looking ready to cry out of joy.

Nodding in acknowledgement, she remains silent and opts to try one of the gingersnap cookies. Tom's going to be unhappy again, she realises, since it'll be awhile before she falls asleep. It was easier over the holidays, even though his mood was as surly as it usually is around Christmas. Now that the term's just resumed, it's going to be difficult again.

Vaguely noting that Wilkie's gone off somewhere, Hem wonders where she should sleep tonight.

. . .

* * *

. . .

Hem's focus on the looping grey sky is broken when Tom ceases in his fitful pacing before her to practically slam down in the space next to her. As always, the bench refuses to budge under the violent addition of his weight. Unwittingly placing an arm on the backrest at her back, he uses the other to run a hand through his already mussed hair in a subconscious show of festering frustration.

Blinking at him, he eventually catches her gaze with his own when his eyes flicker towards her. Then, the frown already marring his expression turns into a conflicted glare that seems to accuse her of being the cause for his annoyance. Perhaps some of it may be, but he's always been good at blaming others for things that might partially be his own fault as well. He rarely admits his mistakes to himself, let alone to her or anyone else.

She tilts her head up at him, the locks that resolutely hang in her face blocking some of her vision.

Clicking his tongue, he turns away from her and sinks further into the bench. "You need to start sleeping earlier," he declares, though his tone implies it's an order. An order that she'll likely not bother to listen to since it's not a choice that she willingly makes to sleep late all the time. "I'm tired of waiting for you to show up. No one, not even you, should be making me wait."

That sentence elicits a prickle of amusement that almost makes her smile at his conceited point of view, but instead, Hem simply readjusts her position. His hand has found a way into her hair again, and she notices how the action affects him when some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes. His breathing also appears to calm, returning to a more steady rhythm.

A contemplative frown soon takes his face, so she lets him sort through his thoughts as she focuses on the way he seems to be attempting to untangle her hair again. His fingers move in a way that's similar to how he twirls his wand, though it would appear to be an unconscious effort. It feels familiar. Soothing, almost.

"There's a room," Tom eventually begins, breaking the vaguely comfortable silence between them with a strain in his voice, "in Hogwarts. It's called the Room of Requirement… You should be able to get sufficient sleep if you were to go there every night."

Hem stares at him, but he refuses to turn his head to meet her eyes as his grip on her hair tightens a little. He stubbornly stares ahead, his jaw clenching as though telling her is an unfortunate compromise on his part. Likely, this room's existence is a secret that he doesn't want anyone to know about. A secret that is incredibly useful to him, so of course the fewer people that know, the better.

Swallowing, he turns his head further away from her, lowering his eyes to the empty space on the bench. "On the seventh floor, in the left corridor. There's a hidden door opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy," he informs her, frowning all the while from what she sees. His jawline is what's taking up most of her view. "Walking past it three times whilst thinking of what you need will make the room appear."

It certainly sounds useful, yes. She'll have to go check at some point, no doubt sometime soon. He'll begin to nag her if she doesn't do it immediately, and as much of a comfort his presence is; she's not quite fond of nagging in any form. It can be tolerable when she zones out, but he ensures that she keeps her focus on him in those cases.

When Hem makes no effort of responding to him, Tom whips his head around to finally look at her. Dissatisfaction with her lack of her reaction curls his upper lip, and he pulls on her hair to demonstrate his vexation with her. Perhaps he's bothered that she hasn't thanked him for divulging such a great secret to her. It sounds like a plausible reason.

"You're going to go find it once you wake up," he informs her, leaning closer in another futile attempt to intimidate her. He never learns. "You understand, Hem? And you'll tell no one. It wouldn't do for you to go blabbering such information to your sister and her moronic friends. They'd want to use it for their own idiotic needs, I'm sure."

Ever since she told him about how Hermione, Ron and Harry went to subdue the troll that was let in, Tom has formed subpar opinions of them. Especially Harry, for some particular reason. Perhaps it's natural bias towards Gryffindors and the equally natural compulsion for unintended heroics that Harry possesses. It might even be the fact that Hem cares for Harry, about as much as she can care for someone who she's known for only a few months. It's not a lot, but it's enough for Tom to notice.

She hasn't told him that the reason they went to subdue the troll, was because they knew Hem was lurking in the dungeons at that moment. A small part of her is curious to know how he would react with that bit of information, but the other is content to leave it be.

Regardless, she has to agree with Tom that it would be a bad idea to tell the trio about this Room of Requirement. They would most definitely want to use it to their own needs, and she supposes she just wants this room to herself, even if for a little while. It's going to be her temporary room, after all. She'll tell them at a later date when the situation truly calls for it.

"Damn it, Hem!" Tom hisses, pulling on her hair again and forcing her to focus on him once more. " _Respond to me_. You may not be able to speak in the real world, but here; you are fully capable of doing so. So I would advise that you _do it_. I won't have you give me the silent treatment when I'm being gracious enough to provide you secrets that only I know!"

Letting a sigh slide past her lips, she turns away from him to stare ahead, with little regard for how he tugs at her hair for looking away. It's amusingly childish of him to do so. "You just don't want to be here alone for so long," she retorts, resting her chin on her knees and hugging her legs closer to herself. He flinches, though it's only so noticeable because she's right beside him. "If not, you'd be content to leave me unaware of this room. But my affairs affect you just as they affect me. Perhaps not to the same degree, but you have to compromise either way. There's nothing gracious about it, Tom."

Forcing a hiss out from between his teeth, his grip on her hair tightens even more. "What does it matter?" he practically spits in retaliation, again forcing her to turn and look up at him as he lours down at her. "Do you understand that I need you here for much longer than an hour or two at best? How am I meant to teach you anything meaningful in such a limited amount of time? For the past few months, how many hours have been wasted because you've been negligent in your own sleeping schedule? This would all be fixed if you would just subdue those insipid little girls that you call roommates, but _no_. You're content to leave them be, letting them dominate the dorms as you wander about in the middle of the night with nowhere to sleep!"

Roughly untangling his hand from her hair to the point that her head jerks back from a few caught locks, he grunts in aggravation and runs his hand down his face in exasperation. Scratching the back of her head, Hem merely stares at him and wonders.

Tom doesn't want to say or even realise it, but she knows that her prolonged absence is jarring to him. His loneliness and destructive thoughts habitually rip him apart when he's alone, without her to distract him from them. In simple terms, _he misses her_. It's possible that he'd rather die than ever admit to such a thing, though.

Why is it that it's those around her that are more affected by her troubles than she is? It's a question that often plagues her.

But then, she tends to remember that it's because they feel a great deal more than she ever has. That's what it means to be human, and Tom is human no matter how much he wishes it wasn't the case. Immortals aren't human, for humans are mortal and mortality is a weakness in his eyes.

People are all interconnected, their experiences in life impacting themselves and those around them. Disconnected as she is from life, the same concept is still applied to her. It's inconvenient because it's a constant reminder of the things she doesn't possess.

Leaning into him, she feels him tense for a moment before he reluctantly relaxes. Shifting in silence, they readjust and his fingers are back to fiddling with the locks of her hair. A feeling of quietude reigns over them, and the mild calm that it elicits is accompanied by a heavier discontent than usual. If she looks up, she'll notice the creases between his brows that are steadily becoming a permanent fixture on his face.

"After class," she murmurs, closing her eyes. Hem feels his chest rumble with his quiet and impatient hum, silently encouraging her to elaborate. So she obliges. "I'll find the Room of Requirement after class. Maybe. I'll have to make sure no one follows, which shouldn't be all that difficult to accomplish."

In response, he simply hums again, this time in acknowledgement and some satisfaction. If she looks up, she'll take notice the involuntary twitch of his lips and the softening of his frown. Instead, her eyes remain closed and she listens to the small but significant increase in his heartbeat when he pushes her head closer to him.

As if she'll disappear if he doesn't have a good grip on her. Inevitably, she disappears regardless of whether he does or not. There's a fair chance that this disconcerts him in a way that he would rather it not.

. . .

* * *

. . .

The unfortunate fact about attending class is that it's quite difficult to focus. While she can do relatively well when focused on one thing at a time, she's learned that it's a bad idea to do so in a classroom full of other children. Hem's acknowledged by everyone to rather easy to startle; a certain fact that can result in others getting hurt. Her situational awareness is still a rough work in progress.

She tends to sit ̶ or stand, depending on the class ̶ in the back of the classroom and by the corners, where no one is at her back and only some are on one side of her. Her classmates understandably give her a wide berth, if they can. For some reason though, there's this one boy that seems to join her almost every time. Others have noticed this, though mostly Slytherins. Hem is shunned for multiple reasons, so to have someone consistently near her raises some questions and concerns.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if he was to simply ignore her at every turn. It would make sense if he just likes to be at the back as well, and would even tolerate her existence if it that's what it costs. Their Slytherin peers seem to be of that mindset, so far.

Theodore Nott, she unexpectedly remembers his name to be. He's a solitary, studious boy who doesn't bother with little cliques like Draco's. She's heard that his grandfather is one of the original Death Eaters, so one would expect him to be even worse than Draco in his attempts to crush her existence.

But the fact of the matter is that he talks to her sometimes, without malice or disgust. As if she's not someone whom people want to eschew existing near.

"How is it that you're so good at nonverbal spells?" he questions her during Charms when they're meant to attempt the Fire-Making Spell. Charms is one of her better classes in terms of skill, along with History of Magic, if only because everyone usually sleeps in that class. Theodore stares down at the bowl of flames in front of her, watching it flicker erratically with some curiosity in his eyes. The fire makes the pecan brown of his irises glow somewhat. "I've noticed that you're proficient in it, but it's meant to be difficult and require a large amount of concentration and mental discipline."

Absently twirling her wand with her left hand, Hem blinks and stares at him. He stares back through long curtains of sable ̶ otherwise known to be his bangs ̶ for a few moments, but then accepts that he won't be receiving an answer and averts his eyes to his own bowl. There's a sufficient amount of fire burning within it, but he still seems dissatisfied.

She has a natural aptitude for nonverbal spells, Hem's unable tell him. It's theorised that her Selective Mutism has made her adapt better to silent incantations. Her wand is also made of willow, which Tom says is capable of enabling some healing magic and advanced nonverbal magic. She still practises despite her natural aptitude, since the core of her wand is a phoenix feather and she needs to further win its allegiance. It has a habit of strengthening the spells she instinctively uses when she's alarmed, which tends to hurt whomever she aims it at far more than intended. Even if that wasn't a goal in the process of being fulfilled, she'd still practice anyway. There are not many other ways to improve in general, after all.

"Is it because of that illness of yours," Theodore mutters, glancing back over at her again as she's brought back to reality, "that's it's easier for you?"

Tilting her head at him, she studies him before finally nodding in confirmation. His tone is particularly monotonous, which is atypical of an eleven-year-old. Never mind the fact that hers is as well, as the only one who hears her speak on a notably semi-consistent basis is Tom. Her fellow Slytherin's lips twitch slightly, and he nods to himself as though pleased to be correct. Hem isn't entirely sure why he treats her normally, though it could be an attempt to get on her good side. That seems rather probable. _Why_ , is the question. Most see her too inferior or too unpredictable to become allies with, regardless of her mostly unintentional combat prowess.

It could be to fool her, humiliate her in some manner. Looking at him, though, he doesn't care for such matters. He isn't particularly close to anyone in Slytherin, despite their numerous attempts to recruit him into their 'gangs'. Nor does he laugh at the insults thrown her or Hermione's way about their blood. He doesn't smile at anything, really, let alone laugh.

"So, do you also know spells that are well above our year level, like your sister?" he inquires, leaning closer. For some reason, he appears to be interested in having an actual conversation with her today. "And if you do, can you do those nonverbally too?"

Before she can either nod or shake her head in answer, someone else intrudes on their one-sided conversation. She feels her body tense more than it already is, but tries to force herself not to react any further than that. Something inside her twitches, as though warning her that her nerves are more than ready to snap.

"Oi, Nott!" they call, and Hem soon recognises it to be Draco's voice. Theodore frowns, but turns to address the platinum blonde pure-blood. "What in Merlin's name are you doing? Talking to the mudblood like it's the most natural thing in the world. You could catch her filth, you know. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

The round of obligatory snickers and giggles is expected at this point. Some might find Draco's slights mildly humorous, but most react because he doesn't like it when no one laughs at them. It wouldn't do to displease a Malfoy, after all. Too bad, really, that her very existence quite obviously displeases him.

Theodore, however, seems to find himself uncaring of the prospect of indulging a Malfoy. He cracks his neck and leisurely rubs it. "I want to talk to her, Malfoy," he responds, voice neutral but also somewhat tired, as if talking to Draco is a nuisance and a waste of time. "I'm allowed to, did you know?"

Because Draco is in the third row of desks with them, she can't see him properly unless she looks around Theodore, who's taller than her. Disinterested by whatever expression the former's making, she stares at the back of the latter's head. His hair is sticking up at the back like he neglects to brush it. It's different to the front, where his bangs look vaguely neat despite hanging in his face like it does.

"Why on Earth would you _want_ to?" Draco demands, like the idea of speaking with her as a respected human being is blasphemous and unheard of. "It's not as though she can talk back, being a mute and all. Half of us have a bet that she doesn't even understand what we're saying, so that's why she can't talk and doesn't react to anything we say. I wouldn't be surprised if she's so daft to be unable to understand the language."

Hem's lucky that they have Charms with Hufflepuff, as Hermione and the others would kick up a fuss in her honour. As appreciated the gesture should be, she doesn't really appreciate it at all. It stresses her out, being in such a volatile environment that then only escalates.

Theodore sighs, similar to how Sir Kenelm does when dealing with idiots. Which is often. "She's bilingual," he murmurs, but not loud enough for Draco and his gang to hear. She blinks, not having expected to learn that he knows that about her. Raising his voice, he says, "I think you should get used to seeing me talk to her, Malfoy. I'm not going to stop, just because you think it's distasteful. Slytherin doesn't belong to you."

An utterance of oohs ripple through the back part of the classroom like a wave, more appearing to be tuning in to the conversation between Draco and Theodore. Likely, the former's frowning now. She doesn't bother to check, brushing away some stray piece of cotton that stands out on the back of Theodore's robes. It stands out against the stark black, so it's distracting her.

He tenses under her touch, but he doesn't turn to look at her. Her hand doesn't linger, soon returning back to her side.

"Is that a challenge I hear, Nott?" Draco hisses, sounding infuriated and confrontational now. "Wait 'till my father hears about this. He'll be quite appalled, to know that the pure-blood family of Notts are affiliating themselves with such filth."

Unfazed, Theodore elicits an unimpressed hum, shifting in his seat to readjust. "Always so ready to use your father, aren't you?" he easily retorts, quite clearly unruffled with the situation and attention settled upon him. "The Notts have been followers of the Dark Lord for far longer than the Malfoys. My grandfather was one of the original Death Eaters, you already know. He told something to my father that was then told to me. Something that the Dark Lord himself once said."

Silence follows his statement, for it would seem that Theodore is effectively making use of a pause for dramatic effect. Shifting once more, he props his elbow up on his desk and rests his chest on his knuckles. Hem takes a moment to look down at her arms, realising that the hand not occupied by her wand is scratching away at the skin of her arm again. Despite her awareness of it, it continues to scratch away even as she begins to bleed. Classes are so strenuous.

" _'There are always exceptions to the whole,'_ " he begins to impart with a notable deadpan, as though indifferent. " _'Ally yourself with them, and perhaps you will stand with them when their enemies fall; as they themselves begin to rise like a phoenix from its ashes.'_ "

The silencing effect such ominous words have on the back part of the classroom ̶ which seems to have been a notable length of time, but she can't be sure ̶ is shattered when someone indelicately snorts. As though previously holding their breaths, Hem watches as some of her classmates' shoulders sag at the break in tension and shuffle in their seats.

"How are we to believe that?" Pansy's grating voice haughtily huffs, sounding close to where Draco is. "And why would the Dark Lord say such a thing, anyway? He's the one who wanted purge the world of muggles and mudbloods more than anyone."

A round of agreement follows her words, with some mocking snickers accompanying it. Theodore, however, still appears to be impassive. He hums again, though it's soft enough that only she hears it. Opting to shift once more, he leans back in his chair and scratches the back of his head. Through heavy-lidded eyes and his bangs, he stares up at the ceiling.

"I don't particularly care if you believe it or not," he answers, nonchalant, much to the annoyance of his peers. " _I_ believe that Hemera Granger is an exception. As does my father and grandfather. She's a Slytherin as well, one that's already capable of killing us if she truly wanted to. Which means it's all just a matter of when she decides to retaliate, really."

Turning to her then, she blinks when their eyes connect. Calculation gleams in his gaze, but underneath that is something less decipherable. Tilting her head, she attempts to figure out what it is, but then she notices his lips twitching downward and his eyes falling onto her abused arm.

"So," he starts, angling his body towards her and reaching out to stop her involuntary scratching, "I'd like it if you were to call me Theo… Hem. I'll make sure you stop scratching yourself and involuntarily attack people on reflex. As friends do, right?"

Staring down at their point of contact, she notices that his fingers are smeared with small specks of her blood. Filth runs in her blood, and he has touched her of his own will. Hem responds with neither a shake of her head or a nod. In fact, she doesn't respond at all.

No, her response wouldn't dissuade a boy like him from doing what he wants. In the end, it doesn't matter.

. . .

* * *

. . .

Ever since Theo's bold declaration to essentially befriend her for the sake of his survival, he's been more apparent in his familiarity with her. She's still unsure about his existence near her, but there's not much she can do in an effort to push him away. Not that she would, anyway. So long as he doesn't harm her in any deliberate form, she's not worried about what he does.

His actions seem to have planted some seeds of doubt in the other Slytherins of their year, however, which is steadily being spread around because of the Dark Lord's supposed words of ominous wisdom. They seem to be conflicted about shunning him or not, since he's still a pure-blood of a family with about as much social standing as the Malfoys. Perhaps even more so, but apparently the Notts are a quiet family and not as ambitious for political positions of power.

It's still going to take more than Theo for them to treat Hem decently, though. She doesn't expect any more or any less. She is still scum in their eyes because being an equal human goes against what they've been taught to believe about muggle-borns. It's for the best, she thinks, as a sudden switch of attitude would raise her suspicions and set her on edge.

Hermione, Ron and Harry aren't pleased with the development at all. They're certain that he's up to something, and probably give him the stink eye when they're in the Great Hall where she seldom makes an appearance. In truth, the only thing he's up to is allying himself with her and treating her decently.

He's been quite upfront about that from the beginning, under the belief that she's going to go about attacking people of her own volition at some point. So, in a Slytherin fashion of self-preservation, he's made the choice to go to her 'side' to avoid being among those whom will apparently be deliberately attacked in the future. She doesn't blame him for doing such a thing, really, and Tom seems to have a relatively high opinion of the studious boy.

Never mind that the adolescent megalomaniac adamantly believes that this is the beginning of something great. As if Theo is the first member of her own future group of minions because it would seem that she can't go through school in Slytherin without underlings to do her bidding.

"I don't trust him," Harry states, the other two quickly nodding in wholehearted agreement. Though, Hermione's expression becomes unsure soon after. "He's a Slytherin, after all. A pure-blood, at that. He might just be trying to befriend you so that he can get your guard down."

Hem blinks at him from across the desk they're all sharing within the library. The three of them are still searching for Nicholas Flamel, the alchemist who created the Philosopher's Stone. She, on the other hand, has been sitting here for a while, doing research on her own projects. Her finals are going to be a little different to everyone else's, she's been told. Hem's not entirely sure how different, other than the fact that she'll be taking them in Sir Kenelm's office rather than with her peers.

And though she could point the trio in the right direction in regards to Flamel, she chooses not to.

They'll get there eventually, even though it would probably be best to just let the situation die. Professor Snape is quite aware of their suspicions about him, and quite equally bothered by it. He's confided in Sir Kenelm that the true suspect is that Professor Quirrell ̶ which, admittedly, there _is_ something off about him ̶ but Harry wouldn't listen to her even if she was capable of communicating it.

Harry has his faults too, and that's alright. He's human as well, even if many forget about that particular fact.

"The Notts are one of You-Know-Who's oldest followers, did you know?" Ron informs them, in that scandalised but gossiping tone he often uses. Looking at them all, he appears to be rather worried about her well-being. What with his wide and fearful eyes, and all. "This Nott doesn't seem to have many friends, but I wouldn't be surprised if he and Malfoy were secretly working together to make it seem like that. Notts can be annoyingly crafty, I hear."

Periodically checking behind her ̶ because paranoia itches at her skin ̶ Hem turns back around to see Hermione frowning in deep consideration beside her. Her sister hums, then looks at her before seeming come to a decision in her mind.

"I don't like it either," Hermione begins, placing a gentle hand on Hem's shoulder and relaxing her own expression of worry, "but he hasn't actually hurt you in any way, has he? I just realised that we haven't really heard your opinion on him."

They rarely hear her opinion on anything, but that's beside the point. With a delay in her response, she responds with a slight shake of her head. It's possible that he's one of those people whom frequently trash her belongings behind her back, but his personality dictates that he wouldn't do something so pointless. For reasons she has some ideas of, he seems to spend more time analysing and learning more about her when she's not looking. Which is apparently more often than one would expect.

She still doesn't know how he knows she's bilingual, and probably won't ever. Perhaps she's written something in French without meaning to and he's seen her do so. She's done it before.

Eliciting a sigh, Hermione's shoulders sag before they square up and she pivots her body towards Harry and Ron. "I think we should let it go, for now," she tells them, in her resolute tone of voice that implies she won't budge. It might falter soon, considering the context of this conversation. "Unless he actually does something to put Hem in danger, we'll just have to trust that his intentions aren't malicious."

"What?" the two boys blurt in sync, sharing concerned and bemused frowns.

"You can't be serious, Hermione!" Ron exclaims, almost standing before a harsh shush from Madam Pince makes him flinch. "Sorry, Madam Pince…" he apologises in a grimaced mutter, before piping right back up. Albeit, in a quieter volume. "He's a pure-blood Slytherin, you know? There's _no way_ that his intentions aren't malicious."

Harry nods, but Hermione frowns at that. "I know that Hem's the only muggle-born Slytherin there, but it seems kind of… I'm not sure… Prejudiced, I suppose, to think that _every_ pure-blooded Slytherin is bad," she tries, though she's rather uncertain herself. "Even if this one is apparently on the same level as Malfoy in terms of pure-blood supremacy. I've seen him around, but he's a bit of a loner. We should probably give him the benefit of the doubt."

The two boys both open their mouths to reply, but Hem doesn't hear whatever they say. She lowers her eyes back to the book before her, skimming over the words. This page has already been read, but rather than turning the page, she opts to stare at the current one until the words become a blur.

Hermione, Harry and Ron are her friends. Because they say they are her friends, they are. It doesn't matter that she doesn't feel like the friendship is mutual; that she doesn't even know how to be a friend, let alone a good one. She doesn't know how to be a daughter or a sister. They're always worrying about her, unable to be at ease because of that.

Hem doesn't even know how to be human. How is she meant to know how to be a friend? How is she meant to be as great as Tom and Theo expect her to be? When everything is strange and everyone is a stranger, no matter how much she wishes otherwise. How? _How?_

She notices, barely, how something tight and painful clenches at her chest. She feels like she's drowning again, and everything feels cold and clammy. Head wrapped in a bubble of fuzz and snow, she belatedly realises that she might be having an anxiety attack again.

Something ̶ someone? ̶ tugs at her arm, and it _hurts_. Like a violent jolt of lightning that spreads up her arm and throughout her body. The world is a blur; off-balanced and unfocused.

Her ears are ringing by the time the visual snow around her vision fades, so loud and jarring that she can't hear whatever Harry and Ron are frantically yelling about. Time is strange, and Hem feels as though she's witnessing a movie scene in slow motion.

A scene of distress. She turns, her chest heaving with a lack of breath, then realises that she's standing and her sister's hunched over. _Something's wrong_ , that much is quite clear for all to see. The books on their side of the desk are a mess, scattered about with some pages ripped free of their bindings.

Madam Pince appears, then. Hem gives a slow blink as the librarian takes hold of Hermione's arm and hoists her out of the seat. Her sister's front teeth are growing at a phenomenal rate, far past the point of anything normal and is quite alarming to witness.

Hermione catches Hem's eyes, and the latter isn't sure what to expect. "S'not chor fault," she hears her sister manage to say through her hand and growing front teeth, caramel irises swirling with a strangely pleading desperation, "H'okay?"

But then Hermione is whisked out of the library before anything can be said in response. Hem lowers her gaze, looking at her white-knuckled grip on her wand; at the small amount of blood that's managed to travel down to her palm. Her wrist is red and raw, more skin and blood than usual stuck under the fingernails of her right hand.

She scratched too deeply this time, though it looks like she simply dug her nails in under it pierced her flesh. It must've scared Hermione and the others.

"Hem?" someone tentatively calls. She recognises that voice. "Hey… Hem? Hermione'll be okay, you know that? We… We should probably go to the Hospital Wing to check up on her though, just in case. It's not your fault, okay?"

Hem turns, looking at Harry and staring into concerned irises of startling green. He stares at her with a troubled frown, then down at her wrists. His gaze softens, and he slowly grasps her wand hand to coax the dark and thin piece of wood out of her hands. Obliging him, she relinquishes it to him and he pockets it.

Mentally exhausted, she blinks at him and watches how he intertwines their fingers as a replacement for her wand. She clutches it with the same tight grip, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"She won't blame you, you know…" he whispers to her, keeping his eyes on their joined hands as though he doesn't have the strength to look her in the eyes. "None of us will. We know it's hard for you… It's not easy to live in a school that doesn't want to accept you."

As much as she wants to be comforted by those words, she feels nothing but a small sensation of annoyance for feeling nothing. The same festering pool of guilt still lingers in her stomach, invulnerable to the soothing words spoken by one who cares for her as a person. It _is_ her fault, and no one can convince her otherwise.

This should be a realisation, she thinks; an epiphany that her lack of true desire to improve herself has made her dangerous to those close to her. It _should_ be. Her sister has luckily only received a relatively minor hex, in comparison to what others have unfortunately received. Next time might not be the same because there's always the next time. Especially in this context. It should've happened sooner, actually.

Leading her out of the library and ignoring the whispers of students scattered around, Harry guides her to the Hospital Wing to go check up on Hermione. The sounds of their footfalls echoes in her ears, sounding strange and discomforting. Surreal, as if she's in a dream that she can't wake up from.

This should be a moment where she finally builds up the motivation to improve herself, for the sake of others. So that people around her don't have to get hurt because of her paranoid disposition.

But Hem knows. This isn't enough to change her mind, for the consequences of her actions to truly _click_. As close as Hermione is to her as a sister and a familiar sight in an unfamiliar place; Hermione is virtually still a stranger. Harry is still a stranger, as is everyone else that she knows. Close strangers, but strangers nonetheless. There's always a wall between herself and the rest of the world, isolating her and distorting her view of everything. Always.

So she knows that this changes nothing. Because Hem admits that she's afraid to change, despite her desire to. She's afraid of a life without the wall; the haze in her mind; the inability to speak and the detachment of her soul. Because as unfortunate it is, this is her normality. This is her life. She knows no other way.

Hem is afraid of what she would do, feel and say without the illnesses that debilitate her. And so, because of her fear and her selfishness, nothing has changed.

Not yet. It will, she understands… But not yet. _Not yet_. She's not ready. She doesn't think she'll ever be.

* * *

 **A/N:** So I don't have a clear picture of what I'm doing, but I do have goal points to reach. I'm mostly just glad that this chapter was even made, so there's hope for this story yet. Maybe you'll stick around with me to see how it develops.

I would truly appreciate your thoughts, if you liked anything in particular or not. It would probably help me with whatever direction I want this to go. (Mostly, reviews just make me happy and remind me that my writing doesn't have to be perfect in order to be enjoyable.)

Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


	3. DISCONTINUATION UPDATE

**A/N:** Hello, sorry that this isn't a proper chapter after so long. I wanted to inform you guys that 'Tainted by Filth' has been discontinued and that I'm currently rewriting it as part of my NaNoWriMo project for 2018. The rewritten version is called, 'Afflicted with Filth' and the first chapter is currently up, if any of you are interested in following it. The chapters will be shorter and a little more rough, but you're more likely to get new chapters since I'm supposed to write every day.

I'm sorry about my tendency of rewriting shit. I would've just revised this version if it weren't for the fact that Tom disliking muggle-borns and seeing Hem as an 'exception' was such a large factor. At the point that the story has begun with, he shouldn't really have much of a reason to generally dislike muggle-borns. In hindsight, that really bothered me.

That's all from me. Again, sorry to disappoint you, but I appreciate all of you who have stuck around and enjoyed what I've written.

Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


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